you had. You'd be away for weeks, and then come back
and tell me it was all right, which meant that you'd 'got your man,' as
they say down there. At first I was too happy to care. And when the baby
came and I tried to get you to give up hiring out to men who wanted
killing done,--for that's what it was,--you kept telling me that some
day you would quit. Maybe they did pay big, but you could have been
anything else you wanted to. You came of good folks and had education.
But you couldn't live happy without that excitement. And you thought I
was happy because you were. Why, even up here in Arizona they sing
'Waring of Sonora-Town.' Our boy sings it, and I have to listen, knowing
that it is you he sings about. I was afraid of you, Jim, and afraid our
boy would grow up to be like you."

Waring nodded. "I'm not blaming you, Annie. I asked why you left
me--without a word or an address. Do you think that was square?"

Mrs. Adams, flushed, and the tears came to her eyes. "I didn't dare
think about that part of it. I was afraid of you. I got so I couldn't
sleep, worrying about what might happen to you when you were away. And
you always came back, but you never said where you'd been or what you'd
done. I couldn't stand it. If you had only told me--even about the
men--that you were paid to kill, I might have stood it. But you never
said a word. The wives of the American folks down there wouldn't speak
to me. And the Mexican women hated me. I was the wife of Jim Waring,
'the killer.' I think I went crazy."

"Well, I never did believe in talking shop, Annie."

"That's just it. You were always polite--and calling what you did,
'shop'! I don't believe you ever cared for a single person on this
earth!"

"You ought to know, Annie. But we won't argue that. Don't act as though
you had to defend yourself. I am not blaming you--now. You have
explained. I did miss the boy, though. Are you doing well here?"

"It was hard work at first. But I never did write to father to help me."

"You might have written to me. When did the boy go to work? He's
eighteen, isn't he?"

Mrs. Adams smiled despite herself. "Yes, this fall. He started in with
the Starr people at the spring round-up."

"Couldn't he help you here?"

"He did. But he's not the kind to hang round a hotel. He's all man--if I
do say it." And Mrs. Adams glanced at her husband. In his lithe,
well-set-up figure she saw what her son would be at forty. "Yes, Jim,
he's man size--and